Of Birthdays and Waiting For Freedom
by Laser Lance 720
Summary: Today, Harry Potter was to turn thirteen. He wasn't going to celebrate thirteen years of living, but mark off yet another year until he was free of the Dursley's. Free of Privet Drive. Free as he could be. - Written for Quidditch Finals Round One


Written for **Quidditch League: **Finals Round One (Chaser One: Dialogue "I can't wait until we're seventeen and free as a pixie." Prompts: bleeding [word], pernicious [word], torrent [word]), **Care of Magical Creatures** (write about a character who feels invisible in some way, whether by family, friends, crush, students or professors) **Variety of Prompts** (Location: Number 4, Privet Drive), **Disney Character** (Donald Duck: Write about someone's birthday)

First, let me make note that this is my 80th piece. I know, look at me being active and wasting my life. But seriously, I want to thank everyone who's stuck with me from the beginning on my rampage on this site. And I also want to thank all the new people who have recently followed/faved either me or just my work. You guys are amazing and I love you all.

So as I have very little of Potter in my arsenal of writing, I decided to use him for this piece. After all, the fandom is called Harry Potter, I think I should probably have more than just two fics that feature our favorite Scarhead.

I don't own the Harry Potter series. In case you were confused.

-oOo-  
>-oOo-<br>-oOo-

Harry Potter had never been a fan of his birthday. As a child of thirteen – made official sometime in the short hours that he had slept– one would expect him to be thrilled. As it was, this day marked nothing new for him. It wasn't like the people downstairs cared enough to remember. Even if they did, they clearly showed no signs of caring that their ward had survived another year. And Harry wasn't surprised in the least and was well aware that come the morning – when he was usually up cooking them breakfast and biting his tongue to keep from snapping – it would be yet another day in the life of Harry Potter.

Number Four, Privet Drive wouldn't be celebrating. Streamers wouldn't be hung from the ceiling. Balloons wouldn't float about in unbridled freedom. To the outside world it would be as if nothing special was being celebrated inside the home. Inside the home there would be nothing special to celebrate. Harry would be lying if he didn't admit that his heart was always bleeding a bit when the day passed without acknowledgement from his so called family.

A heavy sigh racked his body as he rose from the bed he had slept in. The action disheveled the stack of mail that had been resting on his pillow. Hedwig gave a light hoot, and ruffled her feathers a bit at the sudden movement before going back to cleaning herself. Harry made a move to grab his glasses.

The tight frown on his lips disappeared as he caught sight of the three card beside him. While his family never took mind to the scrawny boy with glasses, it seemed his adopted family didn't forget him. Quickly grabbing the cards sent from Ron, Hermione and Hagrid, he set them on the beaten down and rickety desk a few feet away. As he placed them out of the way, he frowned at the sight of the Hogsmead permission slip. He picked the paper up. There was no way he'd get Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign this thing. If it wasn't official papers of someone wishing to adopt and take custody of him and getting him out of their hair, Harry doubted his relatives would sign anything that concerned him.

There was a pounding on his door. Harry nearly dropped the permission slip in a startle.

"Are you awake in there boy?" Vernon's voice was angry; something Harry wasn't unaccustomed to hearing.

Harry sighed, dropping the permission slip back onto the desk. "Yes sir."

"Well get downstairs." Vernon called back, his voice even louder and angrier. "Breakfast is happening. If you don't get it now, you'll starve until dinner. And I'll be damned if I have to wait for you."

"Yes sir." Harry replied, if only because he wished the response would rid him of his Uncle. He was used to his Uncle's cruelty. The torrent of abuse he was subjected to, be it verbal or physical was nothing the boy wasn't used to dealing with. He had learned how to adapt to the life at Privet Drive. He'd learned when to answer yes, when to reply no. He'd been taught when to close his mouth and when to shrink into the corner of the room. He'd learned to appreciate the days when he slide by invisible to the occupants of the house, and to fear the days when he wasn't so lucky.

"And don't think about dilly dallying in there." Vernon's knuckles rapped against the other side of the door violently. Harry couldn't help but cringe at each bang of his Uncle's meaty knuckles striking against the heavy wood. "I do not have time today for you to cause me any more stress."

Harry could just imagine what his Uncle looked like on the other side of the door. Most likely red faced, a dense, fat neck jiggling vigorously while he talked, and mustache dark and well-trimmed, much too large over the man's lip. There was a good chance that a vein had already begun to stick out from his Uncle's large forehead. The vein was usually present whenever Vernon had to deal with, or even think about his nephew.

"Did you hear me boy!" Vernon's voice grew louder as Harry's door was thrown open. The man taking up much of the doorway was exactly as Harry envision him to look. The vein was perturbing and almost pulsing in a very unhealthy manner. "Answer me you little freak."

"Yes, sir." Harry answered quickly. "I heard you."

Vernon frowned, his eyes traveling over the room full of beaten down furniture which consisted mainly of a bed, a busted desk, and a wardrobe that never closed properly. Beady eyes locked onto the boy who stood in the center of the room. Large glasses took up a great deal of his face, and his black hair stuck up in every direction as he had yet to attempt to tame it from the sleep the night before. His pajama bottoms were tied twice to keep on his waist, and his t-shirt hung from his thin frame.

As if satisfied by something Vernon nodded, but kept his gaze locked on the boy. "Good. Now get dressed. You have five minutes to get downstairs or you won't eat. Understood?"

"Yes sir." Harry repeated a phrase which had all but been beaten into him.

"Clean up in here." Vernon sniffed. His gaze became directed at the snowy owl who took that moment to hoot lowly. "And quiet that bird. If I have to hear her, than she's gone. It's bad enough I have to deal with you, I will not have that blasted pest keeping me and my family awake."

"Yes sir."

Vernon said nothing more, but turned, muttering about freaks and pests, and made his way down the hallway; an act that proved difficult as either he was too big or the hall was just too small for him to move about unobstructed. But with his Uncle no longer scrutinizing him, Harry let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was trying to hold. The heavy thudding of Vernon's boots descending the stairs told Harry that he was once more alone. He could already hear Dudley's voice coming from that direction; a clear sign that his pudgy cousin was already aware and taking advantage of the breakfast. It was likely Petunia was down there was well.

Moving towards his wardrobe and removing his slept in clothes, Harry pushed aside the words Vernon had left him with. His Uncle's hatred and ill-treatment towards him used to have such a pernicious effect on the child. His words had built inside of the boy, slowly proving more harmful than the backhands and shoves he received.

But standing there now, shoving a clean t-shirt onto his body and catching sight of the birthday cards that rested on the desk, Harry found that all the names, all the malicious things that the Dursley's said and did to him meant nothing. He had to suffer with them for now, but he knew that the thirteen years of spite he had grown up with was nothing compared to the wonderful life that was waiting to greet him out in a world full of people who had willingly taken him into their family. He had friends at Hogwarts, and a family with the Weasleys.

Sliding a pair of not too ratted jeans, Harry smiled at Hedwig. The owl cocked her head to the side, hooting quietly as if in agreement. Walking towards her, he couldn't help but smile.

"I can't wait until we're seventeen," Harry muttered while petting the back of her head. Hedwig leaned into the touch, her eyes shining with such a bright light. Still smiling, he glanced out the window, relieved that the Dursley's hadn't replaced the bars on his window he and a few of the Weasley boys had destroyed last year. The thought of last year brought another memory to the forefront of his mind. He could still hear the cage door opening and the joyful cheers the creatures had given at being freed. As he stopped petting Hedwig and turned to the door he finished the thought he'd been having a moments prior: "and as free as a pixie."

From downstairs the television could be heard along with the clicking of forks and knifes. Closing the door behind him, and making his way from his room, Harry didn't frown as deeply as he always did when he realized that the Dursley's had already begun to go about their day, and in turn had forgotten about him.

As he slide into the kitchen, and took a seat at the table between Vernon and Dudley, no one looked over to him. He took a piece of toast, nibbling at it and paying no mind to his Uncle's morning rants or Dudley's loud chomping. No one said happy birthday to him. No one even took a moment to greet him. Not that Harry was expecting any differently from this family.

A small smile pulled onto his lips for a moment though. Let them snub him. Let them believe in their perfect little life, with the perfect little home, perfect little car, and perfect – not so little – son, because Harry was aware of one thing.

The moment he turned seventeen, the moment he became of legal age, he was out of here. Like the Cornish pixies who had escaped on Lockhart, Harry was going to fly out of here the moment the door opened for him.

-oOo-

Definitions:

Pernicious: having a harmful effect, especially in a gradual or subtle way

Torrent: a sudden, violent, and copious outpouring of something – typically words or feelings


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